You can read Part 1 of this story here. This is Part 2 of 2:

By Marilyn Coblentz

When I was nineteen, I received a phone call that completely shook my world. My 17-year-old brother Joel was in a car accident and had died at the scene. As I traveled the road from Ohio to Pennsylvania, I couldn’t remember how to breathe. He was one of the few siblings who offered emotional support and believed my story of abuse. My parents and church leaders took his death as an opportunity to warn the rest of us how real and close hell was. They boldly proclaimed him lost and warned those of us outside the fold that this was the time for repentance or we would one day join him in hell. They closed the funeral service with an alter call and singing “Just as I am.”

The tightrope across hell just got really hot.

I knew that failure of any kind was not an option; I would have sooner starved than asked for help. If the wrong person found out I was struggling, it would have been affirmation of God’s judgment on my life.  I finally decided I would be my own hero. I started as a waitress and eventually found an office job, learning skills as I went along, often feeling overwhelmed and under-educated. Socially, it was difficult. As a financially struggling, abused, single woman living in her own apartment, I was labeled a Jezebel. This absolutely confused me. I was deeply committed to getting it right: I took the Bible verse literally and prayed without ceasing, reading my Bible daily. I was concerned about sinning and tried to keep my life pure, but I needed to survive and a place to call home.

Finally I realized that those who labeled me a Jezebel had no specific sin to accuse me of. Instead, it was a thinly veiled attempt to dismiss and ostracize me—a finely tuned game of religious gatekeeping. One potential date was bold enough to bluntly tell me that if I came from a better family, he would want to date me. Other parents warned their sons about me. I discovered that many times, Christians forget to act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly. It is much easier to be proud of privilege and assume we have, by our own deeds, tapped into God’s blessings. I soon realized that while I had stepped off my parents’ tightrope, the broader faith community was waiting, expecting me to walk theirs.

One hot summer evening in late May, I met a guy named Matt at a hot-dog roast. He was bold enough to suggest joining me on a trip to Pennsylvania for a friend’s wedding the following weekend. Thinking it would be a good way to get him off my back, I agreed. To my surprise he went with me. Instead of disappearing, he kept showing up and eventually asked to date me. Despite the pushback and pressure, three years later, we got married.

I used to think he saved me, but I’ve come to realize that together we saved each other. No one needs rescuing; we just need safe places to grow and be ourselves. Together, we created a beautiful life and family, working hard to break cycles of trauma and abuse passed down through generations.

I was surprised to discover that other families around us had their own dysfunctions and abuse but managed to hide it with wealth, status, and resources. In the process of self-discovery I learned about the role of a scapegoat and how easily we cast that role onto each other. I learned how easily I play that role.

As a stay-at-home mom, I took pride in teaching my kids skills I had mastered as a child, like canning, preserving fresh produce, baking, and cooking. When I turned forty, I re-entered the job market and was shocked to be offered only $12 an hour. I decided it was time to pursue my education. I sat my family down and told them changes were coming and it was time for me to attend college. I wanted to be careful not to neglect my kids but to include them in the process.

I am so proud of our three beautiful kids. The biggest win for me is that my kids enjoy spending time with their parents. They feel safe and loved. Having a relationship with my kids in ways I never had with my parents heals part of that pain of feeling like I wasn’t enough to be loved. When I started college, my twins were freshmen in high school and in dance classes, and my son played middle school soccer. Today, the twins are sophomores in college, and my son is a sophomore in high school. We joke that all four of us will graduate in the same year, my son from high school and the twins and I from college. I am currently in my senior year, planning to graduate with a double major in communications and psychology. My friends tell me a Master’s degree is in my future; and I don’t hate the idea.

For the first thirty years of my life, I searched for absolute certainty—I longed for complete assurance that I was in God’s will and destined for heaven. I wanted to find the perfect formula to have my life “blessed” in the ways I saw in my young peers from wealthy families; I wanted to be enough. When my beliefs began to unravel and I couldn’t pretend what I had been told made sense, I once again found myself in a therapist’s office. As I timidly asked my scary questions, the therapist quickly assured me that her faith was unwavering, no matter what happened. It was as if she thought I should admire and learn from her boldness. In that moment, I realized that although my faith felt frazzled and threadbare, I should honor that thread and the faith it took to hold on. Hanging on by a thread takes much more faith than making bold declarations and refusing to ask or engage in questions. Suddenly her faith and the faith of so many I had observed seemed weak and a bit pretentious.

While the therapist continued talking about the strength of her faith, I recognized that despite my parents’ and religious leaders’ claims of certainty; I had experienced their culture as a tightrope that was impossible to traverse. This was true not only in my home but also in the broader Plain and religious communities. As the session ended, I stood up, thanked her, paid my bill, and walked out never to return. In that moment, I knew that my threadbare and what some might consider hard to stomach faith was enough for me.

These days, I am learning the art of holding conflicting emotions and accepting both as valid. Most days, I am incredibly grateful for my life and the blessings I have. Other days, I grieve the loss of what could have and should have been. I mourn the seventh grader whose education was cut short and the abuse that was ignored. I am grateful for the community I was a part of and the skills I learned, but I also grieve the ways we judged and dismissed those who didn’t quite fit in. I mourn the ways we complicate and manipulate faith in order to control and gain power.

Today, much like my Amish ancestors, I understand that even a fragile hope of salvation is still salvation. I refuse to walk the tightropes offered to me and instead choose to honor the path in front of me. This is a choice I make every day. This hope I have is more than enough for my weary soul.

This summer between soccer games, day trips with the family, and tending to my little raised garden, I am working on a manuscript for a collection of essays about my life and experiences—my attempt to write a memoir. In the next year, I look forward to finding an agent to help me publish this work. Occasionally, I blog at https://marilyncoblentz.wordpress.com/. You can find me on Facebook here  https://www.facebook.com/WhenElephantsRoar/ and make sure to follow the podcast I co-host, “Uncovered: Life Beyond,” here https://uncoveredlifebeyond.buzzsprout.com/ .